started walking he abruptly lost interest in the newspaper in his hand and began following.
Richter made the second a couple of minutes after he had left the Moskvoreckij Most – the central bridge over the Moskva – and began walking past the eastern wall of the Kremlin. He was about fifty yards in front, walking briskly, and stopping to look around him at irregular intervals like any tourist would, but maintaining his lead comfortably enough. The two of them closed in on Richter as he reached the huge GUM department store opposite the Kremlin and wandered inside, but he wasn’t interested in losing them. ‘Mr Willis’ wouldn’t even have known they were there.
The Blackbird’s nose tilted downwards as Frank Roberts eased the stick forwards, and the aircraft’s speed began to increase more rapidly. Paul James was devoting his entire attention to the radar display.
‘Missile still has radar lock. Range now four. Second missile launch confirmed. Range nine, three thousand below.’
The Blackbird reached Mach 3.3 and levelled at seventy thousand feet.
‘First missile dead astern, range three decimal five and one thousand below. Bandit One now range fifteen, close to maximum engage range. Full power.’
‘This is full power – we’re at our limiting velocity.’
‘I hope it’s enough. Missiles at three and eight, closing more slowly. Bandit One outside engage range at eighteen miles.’
The Blackbird engines howled as the big jet fled westwards. On the ground, thirteen miles below, the supersonic booms from its passage sounded like distant thunder, and people began looking up, puzzled, into the cloudless sky.
‘Birds at two and six, both still closing slowly.’
‘How long since the first missile launched?’
Paul James was silent for a few moments. ‘I don’t know exactly, but it must be around five minutes. Why?’
‘Just wondering how much more fuel it could have.’
‘Enough to catch us, I think.’
Frank Roberts grunted. ‘Yeah, I thought you’d say that.’
As if linked by an invisible wire, the big black jet and the white-tipped grey missile powered through the sky. Every sweep of the tail radar showed the missile getting closer.
‘Missile speed?’
Paul James didn’t need to calculate the answer – he knew it already. ‘Mach three decimal eight, and it’s still gaining on us. Range now one decimal five.’
The Blackbird’s needle nose dipped downwards as Frank Roberts pushed forward on the control column again and the aircraft’s speed increased to Mach 3.4. Then 3.5. ‘We’re through our limiting velocity,’ Roberts muttered. ‘I sure hope Lockheed didn’t build this baby on a Friday afternoon.’
When Richter left GUM ten minutes later, both his shadows were still in attendance, and as he began walking north up ulitsa Petrovka, they dropped back behind him.
The third took a bit more effort to see, but Richter finally identified him as he turned right off ulitsa Petrovka into ulitsa Petrovskie. He was ahead, on the opposite side of the road, wearing loud check trousers three inches too short for him, and carrying a map and a camera – everyman’s Yankee tourist.
Richter had been expecting a tail, of course, in view of the circumstances, but a three-tail was, he thought, something of an overkill. He walked into the lobby of the Budapesht and checked the mail rack – there would be no letters for him, but everyone staying in a hotel checks the mail rack – then turned back to the main entrance and glanced outside into the street. The two tourists were conferring, while the man with the newspaper was once again absorbed in
Richter walked up the three flights to his floor, stopped at the
The room was hot and stuffy. With some difficulty Richter pushed open the single window, then tossed his hat, coat and gloves onto the bed. He picked up the accident report and the English translation, took them over to the easy chair by the window, sat down, loosened his tie and started to read. The translator hadn’t done too bad a job, only making three minor errors of little importance.
Richter read the report through twice, and was little wiser then. The only conclusion that could be drawn from the stark official phraseology was that the late Mr Newman had been either criminally irresponsible or suicidally inclined, if the facts as stated were correct. He had, it seemed, been travelling at a speed in excess of fifty miles an hour in a narrow back street when he encountered the tailboard, and totally unyielding load, of a parked lorry. Richter smiled humourlessly. Despite the official line, he knew exactly what had happened. He knew the answer, but what he didn’t know was the question. He stood up, straightened his tie, tucked the report into his briefcase, locked it and then headed downstairs towards the dining room.
‘Sir, both interceptors dropping back, but the missile is still closing the American aircraft,’ Privalov reported. He looked suddenly at the digital display that showed the time each missile had been running.
Kabalin noticed his glance. ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘What is it?’
‘The AA–9, Colonel,’ Privalov said. ‘If that run-time figure is accurate, it only has fuel for another two or three minutes’ flight.’
Kabalin nodded decisively. ‘You’re right, Lieutenant. How far behind is the missile?’
Privalov spoke into his microphone, then turned back to his superior officer.
‘Interceptor Eight estimates under one mile, sir.’ Kabalin thought for a few seconds. ‘That’s not close enough,’ he said. ‘Order Interceptor Eight to monitor the missile. If it doesn’t catch the American aircraft, instruct the pilot to command-detonate the warhead the instant the AA–9 runs out of fuel.’
That order was the first mistake Colonel Kabalin had made since the Blackbird had been detected, because he had forgotten to allow for just one thing – the Foxhound pilot’s reaction time.
Paul James suddenly let out an exclamation. ‘Yes! It’s out of fuel. Half a mile astern and five hundred below, and falling away.’
In the MiG–31, the pilot was closely watching his radar display and missile telemetry. In the second and a quarter it took him to register the fact that the missile engine had stopped, the Blackbird had travelled just over one mile. In that same second and a quarter, the AA–9 had slowed considerably and had already begun to descend under the force of gravity. It took the Foxhound pilot a further second to lift the guard on the master detonate switch, and another half-second to depress it, by which time the Blackbird was nearly three miles from the AA–9 and over one thousand feet above it.
Frank Roberts was jolted in his seat as the Amos detonated in spectacular fashion, and the Blackbird kicked upwards, then he heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God. I thought that fucking missile was going to bury us. Where’s the other one?’
‘Forget it. Range is four miles, and even if you chopped our speed to three it still wouldn’t catch us before it ran out of gas.’
There was silence in the operations room as the Russian officers watched the radar return of the Blackbird
